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BY 



MARTHA JULIA ELLIOTT 

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'Be no longer a chaos, but a World, or even Worldkin. 
Produce! Produce! Were it but the pitifullest infinitesimal 
fraction of a Product, produce it, in God's name!" — Carlyle. 



THE CAYUGA PRESS 

ITHACA, N. Y. 

19 17 






uUL-7 1917 

©GIA470209 



v^- 



TO 

MY MOTHER, 

MY INSPIRATION 

AND 

MY CRITIC, 

TO WHOSE FAITH IN ME 

I OWE WHAT LITTLE THERE 

MAY BE OF MERIT IN THESE 

VERSES OF MY CHILDHOOD. 



Copyright 1917 

by 

Martha Julia Elliott 



Sntrohnttxon 

^T\ARTHA JULIA ELLIOTT was born in Yonkers, 
*-M N. Y., July 26, 1899. She is the daughter of E. 
Leavenworth Elliott, Cornell 1887, and of Carrie Enz 
Elliott, Vassar 1891. The Hon. Frank J. Enz, of Ithaca, 
was her grandfather. 

She has been educated in the Ithaca schools, with the 
exception of three years spent in study at Chappaqua 
Mountain Institute, a Quaker School, reflecting the old 
Concord traditions of "simple living and high thinking," 
under the able directorship of Mr. Charles R. Blenis, at 
Valhalla, N. Y. 

She is a member of Lambda Chapter of the Mu Phi 
Epsilon Sorority of the Ithaca Conservatory of Music. 

She will enter Cornell University, in September, 1917, 
in the course in Arts and Sciences. 

This little girl, who took her first step in life on the 
first day of the new century, under the guidance of Miss 
Emily G. Marsh, a warm friend of the family, very early 
showed an aptitude for poetic expression. In fact, before 
she had learned to read or write, she began to commune 
with herself at times, in a recitative full of imaginative 
thought, much of which has been lost. 

Her mother, however, when she found this becoming 
more frequent, as time passed, kept pad and pencil at 
hand, lest the vagrant thoughts be scattered, like the 
leaves of the Cumaean Sybil, and has preserved enough 



of her child's work to afford material of some value to 
those interested in the psychological development of 
children. 

In the present volume, poems have been selected, 
written at an interval of two years, beginning with the 
first, at the age of four, and ending with the "Victuri 
Salutamus," written in response to her unanimous elec- 
tion by her comrades to the honor of Class Poet. 

Her earliest expressions of poetic thought might per- 
haps come under the head of "Free Verse," having a 
certain rhythm, but without rhyme. Then follows one 
prose poem. The first rhyming verse is the one called 
"A Child's Faith," written at the age of four. From 
then on "free verse" seems to have been discarded. 

This little volume is published at the present time, 
and before the Author's eighteenth birthday, as a souvenir, 
to be presented to a few appreciative friends, on her 
graduation from the Ithaca High School in June, 
1917. Owing to the timeliness of the subject, her 
graduating essay, "Three Hero-Poets," has also been 
included. Thanks are due to the Ithaca Journal and to 
the Ithaca High School Tattler for permission to reprint 
the poems which have already appeared in those pub- 
lications. 

C. E. E. 

Ithaca, Jime, 1917. 



AT THE AGE OF FOUR 

How the rose-leaves float along, 
How the roses bloom in the morning, 
The little birds on their way 
Floating along, find leaves 
To build, their nests with loving care. 
* * * 

Ah! the good God makes the crosses, 

Ah! the good God makes the heaven, 

Ah! the good God makes the day. 

Ah! the good God makes the high churches, 

Ah! the good God makes ever so many crosses. 

By day and by night. 
Ah! the good God does everything 

For people and for the living. 



Oh, the lilies, lilies sweet, 

Fairies come to ring you. 

Angels come, angels come 

To hear your sweetest music. 

God lets water come upon you, 

Pansies rub their velvet heads 

Against your fragile stems. 

Fairies come and let their diamonds fall 

Into your cups. 
And the violets love you. 



And the children come and pick you, 
O, sweetest Lilies-of-the- Valley, 
And the proudest roses think you are 

Prettier then they. 
And the fairy princesses come and drink 
Out of your cups, and the orange blossoms 
Let their fragrance blow on you. 
O, fairest Lilies-of-the- Valley! 
And the humming birds fly gently past you 
And the children come to smell your sweetest fragrance, 
O, fairest Lilies-of-the- Valley I 



Once upon a time, there was a beautiful white cloud 
in the sky. A white moon came floating by with a little 
yellow star. 

They went into the cloud and there they foimd a 
beautiful casket, made of shells and diamonds. 

They opened it and found a beautiful maiden. But 
she was dead. 

They took her down to earth and gave her to the 
fairies and the fairies made her alive. Her name was 
Psyche. 

When you die, you shall be put in the same casket 
and you shall have a happy life in the sky. 



Note: Sometime after having been told the Greek legend of 
Psyche (the Soul). 



Who made the day ? Who made the night ? 

Who made the beauteous stars alight ? 

Who made the sunshine and the flowers ? 

Who made the shadows and the showers ? 

And all the lovely summer hours ? 

'Tis the good God — I know it well, 

Who makes things bright where we do dwell. 



Aetat 4. 



iEti?ttt«9 



Many a time in the evening glow, 
I've heard the gentle cattle low, 
I've heard the barking of the dog, 
I've heard the croaking of the frog, 
I've heard the distant shepherd's call. 
While the bright moon shone over all. 
This seems to me a Paradise, 

Of joy and love, 
With Father, Mother here below, 

And God above. 



Aetat 6. 



3tt S^inpxitomn 

The bleating lambs have gone to rest, 
The baby sleeps on its Mother's breast, 
The wee white chicks are warmly hovered. 
The tiny calf is tenderly mothered 
In Sleepytown. 

The brown elves dance in the bright moonbeams. 
The fairies flit in our land of dreams, 
But the ghosts are afraid of candle light, 
And only come out late at night 
In Sleepytown. 

I love to watch the wood-fire glow 
And the purring cat on the hearth below. 
And my Mother's face above me bent 
Then I close my eyes in sweet content 
In Sleepytown. 

Aetat 8. 



H^autg 



Underneath my throne my kitty, 
Eats his bread and peanut-butter. 

And I think 'tis such a pity 

That his thoughts he cannot utter. 

Beauty is his name, and beauty 
Is he too, by name and nature, 

For his only thought is duty, 
Regardless of all nomenclature. 

Mice and rabbits (Welsh and other), 

Is he very fond of eating. 
He of little birds and mother. 

Partakes too, e'en though with beating. 

Yet we love him, nor can help it, 

Little comrade, friend, and brother. 

We just hug him and forget it. 
Little cat like any other. 



lltbtg^tgH 



With her shell-pink nose, 

And her upturned toes, 

Here our HiDi lies. 

Gazing with surprise 

Out of yellow eyes, 

Where our Mischief lies, 

Reading on the grass. 

Naughty, naughty lass! 

SHOULD be making pies. 

Happy little cat! 

Happy little maid! 

Neither of a rat, 

Nor of Life afraid. 

Ah! No future time 

Half so sweet as this — 

Youth and Health and Strength 

Need no greater bliss. 



HHortttttg 



When the moon hath died in splendor 
And the stars their brightness lose, 
When the dove is softly calling 
Answered by its mate's soft coos; 

When the gently murmviring river 
Ripples onward to the sea, 
And the night wind softly whispers 
All its secrets vinto me; 

When the east is red with morning, 
And the sunlight doth appear, 
And the birds are making music 
In the springtime of the year; 

Then my heart, with joyous beating. 
Rises upward from the sod. 
And my soul with deepest reverence 
Feels its oneness with our God. 



Aetat 10. 



In the dimness and the gloaming of the green and bosky 

dell, 
From the distance comes the echo of the tinkling heifer's 

beU, 
From the reeds along the river pipes the frog his serenade 
To his love on mossy tree tnonk, deep with rushes overlaid. 

Bright the moon with silver radiance glides serenely 

through the sky, 
Turning now to peace and fragrance sorrows of the day 

gone by — 
One can almost hear the echo, in these latter days of man, 
Of the music, dim and distant, of the far-off pipes of Pan. 

Aetat 12. 



The moon is bright — the air is cool, 
The nightingale in gladness sings — 

The wooing bull-frog in the pool 

Has ceased his plaintive questionings. 

Deep in the water, crystal clear. 

The darting minnows gleam and glide — 

In silence, one can scarcely hear 
The vagrant lapping of the tide. 

The fleur de lis beside the brook 

Bends low its drooping purple crest, 
In every dim and shadowy nook 
, The water lily sways to rest. 

The moon-light silvers wood and stream. 
Till all the world, to human sight. 

Melts slowly in a mystic dream, 

And fades into the shadowy Night. 

Aetat 14. 



Of roses red and violets blue, 
Of hearts forever warm and true, 
I sing not, as the stately beau. 
To damsel fair, of long ago. 
This simple song would only bore 
The modem damsel — furthermore 
I am not sure it would be so — 
I am no beau of long ago. 

I beg thee now, as each man ought to. 
Accept my heart and hand and auto; 
Flounce out in all thy pretty frills. 
And let me meekly pay the bills. 
You see that what I said is so — 
I am no beau of long ago. 

For Bridge debts and for theater box 
I'll gladly furnish all the "rocks." 
If you will only smile on me 
When handing out my cup of tea. 
I am quite sure that now you know 
I am no beau of long ago. 

I know that all this new devotion 
Just suits the modem damsel's notion — 
Yet while I dream beside the fire. 
And picture out my heart's desire, 
I wish I were — yes, you must know — 
That happy beau of long ago. 

Aetat 16. 



^n Anam^r 



In that dear rhyme of olden time, 
Concerning rose and violet blue; 
The modem maid, quite unafraid. 
And mindful also of what's true, 
Suggests that you left out the part 
Which goes so far to win her heart — 
"Sugar is sweet and so are you!" 
O modem maid, quite unafraid! 

She willingly forswears all debt. 
She will not be a Suffragette, 
She might, without a theater box. 
Consent to dam your Hole-Proof socks. 
She's smiling at your courtesy, 
While pouring out your cup of tea — 
Just see to whom your court you've paid, 
A modem maid, quite unafraid! 

She can't forego the frills and auto 
What woman could, and what one ought to ? 
She hopes a Lozier it may be 
And not a little "Tin Lizzie!" 
You see your mental apprehension 
Of what attracts a maid's attention 
Is not far wrong — I've plainly said — 
I, modem maid, quite unafraid. 



And yet you miss the finer part 
That constitutes a maiden's heart — 
A heart as warm and true and tender — 
As that which animates the sender. 
I, too, dream dreams beside the fire — 
Of willing feet that never tire — 
Of happy hearts, by living tried, 
But beating ever side by side. 

O modem maid, quite unafraid! 

O happy beau, of long ago! 



Careening through space the aeroplane glides, 
Black Death at the back of the man who rides, 
Waiting to grasp the hand that guides. 

Companions of Fate, they gaze below 
On the serried ranks of the silent foe 
Unconscious of their death-dealing blow. 

They think of the wondrous things that were. 
They gaze on the ruined things that are. 
The dire devastation of the war. 

They gaze on ruined temple and fane, 
The crowded mass of the heroes slain 
And their murderers marked with the brand of Cain. 

The airman falters — the wing&d car 

Shoots down through the air like a shooting star 

And Death descends in his avatar. 



E\^t l&mh l^gmn nf % J. % &. 

Dedicated to the Basketball Team — 1916 

Our eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the team, 
They are hustling to'ard the center while the happy 

rooters scream, 
But the players stop reluctant, at the whistling referee, 
For it happens most untimely that Young Wager's banged 

his knee. 
Now they're on again and hustling "for the honor of the 

school," 
Trjdng hard to play obedient to the 1916 rule — 
But now over in the doorway, Mr. Bush begins to prance. 
While a basket is attempted by our blond and noble 

Hance. 
Oh! Look! He makes the basket and one own Detweiler 

yells 
And loud and louder through the Gym the "fighting" 

echo swells. 

While the boys go fighting on. 
Glory, glory, hallelujah! 
The boys go fighting on! 



Now our enemies attack us, feeling somewhat stiff and 

sore, 
But brave Gallagher, the agile, wards them off and lifts 

the score, 
Then our foes, all unintending, their most brainless foul 

commit. 
When the ball to Bums is handed, as the hero now most 

fit. 
And he shoots it in the basket while the startled rooters 

yell 
At this victory unexpected, which our little Bums befell. 
Forward then our gallant Captain, quite undaxinted, joins 

the fray, 
Shooting balls into the basket in his own peculiar way — 
Till the referee is speechless and the gym's old rafters 

ring 
With the chorus that Detweiler and we joyous rooters 

sing: 

While the boys go winning on. 
Glory, glory, hallelujah! 
The boys go winning on! 

Victory, victory, all their efforts bless 
For the gallant players of our I. H. S.! ! 



Spring is here! The blue-bird sings it, 
And the budding crocus brings it 

Shyly peeping from the earth — 
Warm sweet scents of fern and bracken 
All our sluggish senses waken 

To revivifying birth! 

Maple branch and pussy willow 
Bend above Titania's pillow, 

Weaving shadows in her hair, 
While she wakes in April's radiance, 
Wakes amidst its subtle fragrance — 

Violet and arbutus rare. 

Sings the brook down by the meadow, 
Slips and swirls in sun and shadow, 

Hastening onward to the sea — 
While the sky, the earth, the simshine. 
Early dawn and dusk and star-shine, 

Join in Nature's harmony. 

Feathered songsters trill in measure 
All their glad hearts out for pleasure — 

Happy harbingers of Spring! 
Age, and Youth, and Man and Maiden, 
Gay of heart and heavy laden, 

Hope and Joy and Love now sing. 



The Annual needs your pennies, 

As well as your "moral support" — 

So every one please get busy 

And show that you are a good sport. 

The Editors all are frantic, 

The Manager's near insane, 
The Staff's gone through every antic 

In order to get more gain. 

And while we have many a subscription 
We beg you to bring up the "dough," — 

The Printer'll have fits conniption 
If we don't pay what we owe. 

E'en though you've signed up for the Annual — 
That's little enough at the best, — 

It's a far cry from putting your name down 
To hauling it out of yovir vest. 

So ante up now like a good one, — 

Of poverty do not complain, — 
Put your hand deep down in your pocket 

And quiet our Manager's pain. 



From Tennyson's "Idylls of the King" 
My Version 

Fair Lyonors, the lady of his quest, 

Who lived in grim and gray old Perilous, 

After Gareth the victories hard had won, 

Amid her maids made mirth and revelry. 

In honor of her brave and gallant knight, 

Forgetting not the hero that he was, 

And all the dangers he had saved her from. 

So thus the spell worked on her woman's heart. 

The spell that often has its greatest charm — 

The magic of the unknown and the strange, 

The unaccustomed and mysterious. 

Lynette had been so arrogant and vain 

That this sweet attitude of Lyonors 

More than her beauty which was also great 

Thus won his great devotion and his love. 

And when he knew his love reciprocate 

These two were wed, these two thus joined by Fate. 



Senior Class Motto — 1916 

To those who would win in the battle of Life, 
Where the weak meet the strong and temptations are rife, 
And the fight is hard fought and the vict'ry hard won, 
By him who fears not the hard tasks to be done, 
I would quote, in encouragement, now, as we pass. 
The motto of the wise I. H. S. senior class. 

To those who give leisure and comfort and hope. 
For the good of their country, with great odds to cope. 
Who, forgetful of self, give their all to the cause, 
Expecting no honor or human applause, 
To these heroes alone must this knowledge suffice. 
That success is attained through their great sacrifice. 

In the life of the school it must still be the same — 
To accomplish what's worthy of honor or fame. 
We must learn to live up to our highest and best. 
When our lives are so constantly put to the test — 
To give and to help, though perhaps at great cost — 
For never is unselfish sacrifice lost. 



l^niiomtm 



This is the mystic Hallowe'en, 
When mischief is abroad I we'en, 

And witches brood, 

In frolic mood. 
In moonbeams' silver light is seen. 

The wizard chants his mystic rite, 
And Hades' doors ope wide to-night, 

And demons dark. 

Enjoy a lark, 
And sport about in flaming light. 

The witch on broom-stick well astride, 
To place of meeting forth doth ride, 

Where caldrons boil, 

'Midst great turmoil. 
To brew love philters for a bride. 

And young folks at the witching hour, 
O'er come their dread of ghostly power, 

And tempt the Fates, 

With laughing mates. 
Or dive for red-cheeked apples sour, 

And ample stores of nuts and jokes. 
Are cracked about among the folks. 

King Frolic reigns, 

And age regains, 
Its youth, in spite of old Time's croaks. 



Then let the merry fun go on, 
And blither be each mother's son, 

For Youth is short. 

And brief is sport, 
When once Life's lessons are begun. 

The hearty laugh, the boisterous mirth 
Should with this wholesome hour have birth, 

Let them ring out. 

With joyful shout, 
And thus attest good Hall'we'en's worth. 



JCmgljta 



Many stories are told, 

Of the brave days of old, 
When bold knights to the combat rode gaily away. 

By ladies most fair, 

Their colors so rare 
Were given the heroes on that parting day. 

Is all this past and gone ? 

Have all prizes been won ? 
But no! 'Tis the same in the present as then. 

For our knights of to-day, 

In the same sort of way. 
Fare forth, worlds to conquer, brave men among men. 



SFl|ank0$ttnttJ^ 



(1916) 

The scarlet of sumach and creeper and vine, 
The scent of the grape, distilled into wine. 
The warm, aromatic, sweet odor of pine, 

Have fled with October. 
The woods are all yellow and russet and brown. 
The leaves, one by one, float silently down, 
Chill winds are astir and the gray heavens frown. 

All Nature grows sober. 

Then silently, lightly, the first flakes of snow 

Fall thick on the frozen clods below, 

And hoarse the cries of the wheeling crow — 

Portent of November. 
Still bleaker the winds to a roaring blast — 
Come, hasten to make door and window fast. 
Let more and more wood on the fire be cast — 

Cherish each glowing ember. 



Morning breaks, all golden yellow 
Autvunn sunshine, warm and mellow, 

Indian summer of the year. 
Youthful hearts beat high with gladness. 
Older hearts forget their sadness, 

For again Thanksgiving's here. 

We give thanks for those who love us, 
For the brooding God above us. 

And for all His watchful care. 
For our harvest fields unspoiled, 
And our whole broad land unsoilM 

By the blood of martyrs there. 



Hiirrah for the Faculty! Here's to the winners, 

Who showed from the start they were sure not beginners. 

The courtesy shown by the youthful to age, 

The greatest esteem for the wise and the sage, 

Caused our boys such discomfiture, each one and all 

That they were scarce able to play them at all. 

So it seems not so strange, that our friends, Brockport 

Normal, 
Should send us a sad declination quite formal. 
When asked for a game with the brave I. H. S., 
They were most unwillingly forced to confess, 
That just as our boys feared the stem Facultee, 
So, they, in their turn, dreaded our boys to seel 



The dear little ladies of long ago, 

With well ordered lives, moving quietly, 

Would hold up their hands in horror, I know 

If they their great-grand-daughters now could see. 

With frills at their wrist and silken gown. 

With gentle manners and unknown frown, 

With parted hair and smoothed-out curl, 

They would stand aghast at the modem girl. 

For they of the old time could "converse," 

And would be at a loss at the new girl's terse 

"I should worry," "Now listen," and "I don't care!" 

They would worry and listen and sure beware 

Of such "bold young misses" and "so impolite," 

And banish them quickly out of their sight. 

For the modem girl can talk and dance, 

And knows how her every charm to enhance. 

But for mending and brewing and baking bread — 

She can only fudge manufactvire instead. 

At the old-time rolls and the old-time pies 

She would gaze in a mute and great surprise. 

Or if she spoke, it would only be 

From those scarlet lips the one word "Gee!" 

To nourishing meals she gives no thought. 

For "Delicatessen" can be bought. 



All this about her, we are told is so — 
But is it the truth ? I would like to know. 
Is the girl of now just a surface girl ? 
Or is there grey matter back of e*ch fluffy curl ? 
Just look at the records and you will see, 
In school and college and university. 
She can hold her own with the best of the boys, 
Can hold it and keep it without any "noise," 
Or with true philosophy, she can "go bust" 
If need be, and not be so terribly "fussed." 
She can marry a poor man and when needs arise 
She can keep his house clean and can make 

him "some" pies. 
She don't need to "worry" or "listen," perforce — 
She just simply does it — a matter of course. 

We love the dear ladies of long, long ago, 
Who surely make happy the stately old beaux, 
But the girls of the present fit their time and age, 
And match up with the men, who're not any too sage. 
Old things may be best in their own time and place 
In progress we keep but the best of each race. 
With this reasoning then, we perceive the "new woman' 
The highest product of the race we call human. 



Away and under beaming Eastern skies, 
A slumbering Infant in a manger lies. 
And tender Mother Mary, sweet and fair. 
Is bending o'er Him, rapt in fervent prayer. 
Through her sweet spirit, out of sinlessness, 
God sent His great good Gift mankind to bless. 
From out the depths of those mild maiden-eyes 
Do visions of the tragic future rise ? 
Does she the cruel suffering foresee — 
The shadow of the cross on Calvary ? 



The wise men, led by gleaming Eastern Star, 
In silence of the night come from afar, 
The little new-bom Saviour here to greet — 
To worship Him and lay at His dear feet 
Their gifts of gold and frankincense and myrrh 
While bending low in reverence to her 
Who bore Him. Thus the Christmas joy began 
Of giving gifts — as God's great Gift to man 
Come through the love divine, from Him above 
The gift is given of tender human love. 



A TOAST 

Here's to the boys! God bless them every one! 
From present day, way back to Adam's son! 
His younger son, for I with care refrain 
From mentioning his first-bom — Uncle Cain! 
*Twas there it started, I suppose, the fable 
Of wild oats scattered wide — but not by Abel — 
'Twas there the world-old difference began 
Of wise and good — and much perverted man. 
We have them with us still, and always shall — 
The upright man, and one who's prone to fall. 
The first one let us honor — and the other ? 
We reach the hand of pity to our brother. 
And so I say, God bless them every one — 
From present day, way back to Adam's son! 
Here's to the boys! 



A maiden, fair as any flower, 
Embroidering in her dainty bower, 
Sat, looking forth from her grim tower. 
(This is rot!) 

The bold Sir Percy rode that way, 
He rode upon his charger gray. 
And none there were to say him nay. 
(They dared not!) 

The bold Sir Percy spied the maid — 

He saw that she was vmafraid — 

She laughed at him — he was dismayed. 

(Idiot!) 

The bold Sir Percy wished to wed 
The fair young maid, who only said, 
"Go from my sight — thy hair is red!" 
(He went not!) 

He charged upon that castle grim — 
He tore her servants limb from limb — 
Her raillery appealed to him! 
(Dam that blot!) 



And when she saw this Knight so brave, 
This Knight whom she had thought a knave, 
Forsooth she then began to rave — 
(About him!) 

For every woman, then and now, 
Likes of all things to raise a row. 
And see each man before her bow, 
(On bent Umb!) 

So on her palfrey, by his side 
She ambled forth to be his bride — 
To those who stop them woe betide! 
(Don't stop them!) 

The couple rode off with their men. 
And soon they vanished from our ken. 
When next we see them they have ten — 
(Cherubim!) 

And now, recsilling all the past. 
We look at them, and stand aghast, 
For, "he laughs best who laughs the last!" 
(HER or HIM ?) 



Proljtbtttfltt 



Long past, in dim and misty centuries, 
When all the world was new and Paradise 
Grew green and fair about the Tree of Life, 
From' the God-head the prohibition came 
To touch or taste its beauteous golden fruit — 
The one thing only that was stem forbade. 
For knowledge of Evil and Good would come, 
To ovir first parents, with the taste thereof. 
Now here-to-fore in lovely Eden, reigned 
Peace, Love and Joy, Content and Happiness, 
Until this edict came, that roused the pair 
To discontent — for curiosity 
Works oft more sin and disobedience 
Than natural inclination toward the wrong. 
And then the Serpent entered with his wiles, 
Persuading Eve that none would wiser be 
If she of the forbidden fruit did eat. 
She ate — and then the knowledge swiftly came 
Of all the Good and Evil in the world — 
A knowledge mingled with both joy and pain. 
And she, who from her spouse no secret had, 
Persuaded him — that he might knowledge have 
Of all the Good and Evil in the world — 
And thus was lovely Eden lost to them! 



From then till now, in all thingf of this world 

'Twas ever so, that prohibition stem 

Begets the dire condition 'twould avoid. 

And since to be a perfect rounded man 

Or woman, each must widest knowledge have 

Of good and ill, so that in choosing they 

May choose the best in life, may it not be 

That, rather than the prohibition stei?i, 

We cultivate the growth of self control. 

That we may temperance practice in all things. 

So long as there is Evil in the world. 

And that will be long after we are dust. 

So long will Prohibition be a law 

If made, broken again as soon as made. 

Rather let us for temperance give our voice — 

Temperance in all the good things of this world 



March Jfirst, a gay young Monarch he, 
As bold a blusterer as can be. 
With manners just a bit too free! 
He swings and buffets girls about. 
He minds not if they smile or pout, 
(And turns umbrellas inside out.) 
See how, with wild fantastic glee 
He's made an ice-boat out of me! 



The happy girls of many a Mu Phi band 

Are scattered far and wide o'er all the land, 

From Atlantic to Pacific's golden shore, 

We meet them, greet them, love them more and more. 

They sing this song, with music of the lyre. 

And every heart with Joy and Youth on fire: 

Refrain: 

Our duty see — 
With love obey 
And honor keep 
Upon our way, 
So that the world 
May better be 
For the Mu Phi 
Sorority. 

The sign and symbol of our unity 

Of finest gold is wrought for you and me, 

The royal purple of the amethyst. 

Betokens the temptations we resist. 

The pure white pearls — may they the emblems be 

Of motive, love and life of this Sorority. 

Refrain: 

With bonds of love may hearts united be. 
Each feel for each the tenderest sympathy. 
And strive to help each other in the fight 
Where oft 'tis hard to keep our honor bright. 
May cheer and blessing on each one attend 
Till we have done our duty to the end. 



g>atttt Patrtrk 



The good Saint Patrick, patron saint of Erin's emerald 

isle. 
Devout and simple minded man, unlettered, without guile, 
Came out of fair Tabemia, to Irishmen to preach 
Of Christ and of Him crucified — and faith in Him to 

teach. 
The pagan people looked askance, at doctrines all so 

new — 
For many patient years of toil, his converts were but few. 
And yet for sixty years and more, he faithfully toiled on, 
Till first the Chieftains, then the Clans, were finally won, 
Through faith to their salvation, though not by faith 

alone, 
For works, he taught, must follow, and for their grave 

faults atone. 

So that, in later centuries, fair Ireland came to be 
Known as the "Island of the Saints," a-shimmer in the 

sea, 
A "little bit of heaven," down-dropped from out the blue, 
Where from the star dust, scattered by the angels, sprang 

and grew 
The tiny tender shamrock, in no other land e'er seen, 
Just to do Saint Patrick honor and to keep his memory 

green. 
'Twas on the seventeenth of March, four hundred sixty- 
five, 
That good Saint Patrick, missionary, ceased to be alive. 
All honor to his memory — the trials that he bore — 
A memory that's lived for fourteen hvmdred years and 
more! 



I. 

They crucified Him! On the bitter cross 

He suffered out His lingering agony — 

The Christ, in whom great Pilate found no wrong, 

Was mocked and pierced — and died for you and me. 

And even as the ribald jeer arose, 

Proclaiming Him of Jews the thom-crowned King, 

"Forgive them, for they know not what they do," 

Breathed forth His gentle words, while blood, mingling 

With sweat, bedewed His fair and noble brow — 

His patient eyes were dim with suffering. 

And as His last words, "It is finished," came 

From pale lips, drawn in Death's last agony, 

A midnight darkness fell upon the world, 

That Friday when Christ died for you and me. 



lEaatf r iiorntng 

II. 

The sun rose bright on that first Easter mom, 

The third, since His disciples, left forlorn. 

Had gently laid Him in His sepulchre 

All wrapped in snowy linen, sweet with myrrh. 

*Twas early, all the world was drenched in dew, ^ 

As fresh and fragrant as if bom anew. 

When Mary Magdalene, with down-bent head. 

And sorrowing heart, from which all joy had fled, 

With heavy eyes, which never now knew sleep. 

Crept to the holy sepulchre to weep. 

But as she came, she saw the open door — 

The snowy grave-clothes scattered on the floor — 

A startled moment her heart ceased to beat, « 

Then, turning, forth she sped on winged feet, 

Affrighted, wondering, her tale to tell 

To His own true disciples, loved so well. 

But while she wept, and all things dire feared, 

A shining Figure, clad in light, appeared 

To her, and when He saw she knew Him not, 

But stood afraid and trembling on the spot. 

With all the old benignant tender grace, 

He gazed upon her pale and tear-stained face — 

Reached forth the hands, that e'en for her had bled — 

She knew Him then, as risen from the dead. 

"Mary!" how sweet His voice no tongue can tell — 

"Masterl" she cried, as at His feet she fell. 



S^pnn^ 



What so typifies the Spring 

As golden jonquils blossoming, 

Nodding now in ecstasy 

That the earth has set them free ? 

Blue-bird on his branch a-swing, 

Golden song unfaltering, 

In the mosses green and wet 

Tender, shy, sweet violet. 

Clouds piled high amidst the blue 

Making Heaven just for us two. 

In the night the fragrant rain 
Beats upon the window pane. 
In the morning-dew empearled 
Lurks the sunshine of the world. 
In each drop soft opal hues 
Darker tints and fairer fuse — 
Wondrous mystic perfect whole 
Like the joys of every soul. 
Mingled with its deep despair, 
Finds its rainbow promise there. 



Dedicated to M. 

Is Death a dreary, dark-cowled Majesty 
Who summons us to Him and bids us stay 
And sink into the depths of dark oblivion 
From which we ne'er can rise ? The light of day 
To be fore'er shut from us ? Or is He 
A gentle, peaceful, calm Benignity 
Who calls us to Him, comforts us and shows 
Us to a Place of Rest, where Wayfarers 
Traveling Life's Pathway may stop a pace, 
Cast down their weary load of misery, 
Sadness and pain — rest — and then return 
Alive, refreshed, revivified, to joy 
In this world's thrilling wonder once again ? 



SIo iig Pntt^ 



When first she did appear to me. 
From out the dusky shrubbery, 
The moonlight silvering brook and tree, 
I gazed with fear — 

What mjrthic dam, what fabled sire. 
Did with the laughing Fates conspire, 
Imbue with mythologic fire 
This creature here ? 

For "beggar's louse" and clinging bun- 
Had made a Unicom of her 
And upright tail, like a Centaur 
Bespoke her ire. — 

What Faun had ridden her to me — 
Was hiding now behind what tree — 
Ashamed of his simplicity 
And scant attire ? 

But as the moon's soft ambient light 
Was cast abroad upon the night 
I saw before me, standing there, 
A gentle little dark brown mare — 
With forehead broad and liquid eyes. 
Gazing upon me in surprise. 
Avaunt thy mythic ancestry! 
Thy waiting Faim behind the tree! 
I'm glad thou'rt not of spirits bom — 



Nor Centaur yet, nor Unicom — 

But just my comrade and my friend. 

Thru' happy days too soon to end. 

For tho' the number of our years, 

Of thine and mine, alike appears, 

I know the time will surely be 

When Death will come 'twixt thee and me. 

Would that a well-loved horse's span 

Of life could equal that of man! 

Or like the Chief in days gone by. 

Might faithful friends together lie 

With faces lifted toward the sky. 

But gloomy thoughts let's put away. 
And save them for some distant day, 
And only trot and prance and play, 
My bonnie dear! 

We'll canter forth at early dawn, 
When dewdrops twinkle on the lawn, 
And chase the very woodland Faun, 
That brought you here. 

For in the dusky gloaming dim. 
When first appears the crescent's rim, 
I hear him whistling you to him 
Adown the glade. 



Go not — I would too lonely be — 
Between my little mare and me 
Is vmderstanding sympathy — 
Be giad you staid! 

Quite soon enough we two must part — 
At thought of it the teardrops start — 
Thy loss lies heavy on my heart, 
My faithful friend. 

Let's joy and love and pleasure know — 
I kiss your mane's soft rippling flow — 
Just live and love me here below, 
Until the end. 

I'm sure that in God's great good plan, 
For faithful horse, as faithful man, 
A Heaven waits, which knows no ban 
For creatures here — 

For in His loving thought of all 
His creatures here, both great and small, 
His sympathy for each and all, 
Is God more dear. 



Let loose the Dogs of War! America 

Has held in leash too long the hell-hound pack 

Which foams and frets and trembles to be gone! 

Our honor stem demands that war shall cease 

Our own and that of lands across the sea. 

Now is the time when human brotherhood 

Shall demonstrate the strength of Unity. 

Close-bovmd in the good God's great righteous cause 

Shall slay the Demon and once more be free. 

Since we must enter in the Great Conflict 

Then let us do so with the Spirit which 

Great Shakespeare recommends, "so bearing it 

That our opponent may beware" of us, 

Hide his diminished head, and slink away! 



Futuntg 



A space of time 

May go, 

But time is naught 

When one has the bright living faith 

To wait the true Hereafter. 

What could be better, truer and more reasonable 

Than that we should 

Return and live anew 

In this or other spheres 

Which circle endlessly in the firmament ? 

Anew — Oh word of promise 

What wonder-meaning is in you 

Incorporated! 

To live anew — ^without the old 

Impediments and burdens 

O'er which to stumble and under which • 

To fall. 

To cast aside all things that hinder us. 

Oh! might it be that we could profit by 

Our hard-won, suffering-fraught experience! 

But that, they tell us, may not be 

For we must enter 

Into a New Life. Begin again 

And grope our way 

Through that New Life 

To yet a new Hereafter, 

And hence on 

To interminable Infinitude. 



El^t (HM ®o Armfi 

From pillaged town and bumt-out smouldering fire, 
From wounded soldiers suffering on the wire, 
From desecrated temples of the Lord, 
From widows made by bayonet and sword, 
From desolated homes, whence peace has flown, 
From helpless orphans starving and alone. 
From heroes bravely fighting day by day. 
From wives, who only tremble, weep and pray, 
The prayer goes up, "How long, O Lord, how long ? 
Must we still suffer, must we still be strong ?" 
All Europe calls! Our brothers o'er the sea 
Look to this nation's strength to set them free. 
Long have we waited, shall we fail them still, 
Shall we yet hesitate our blood to spill 
In cause so righteous ? Nay, be it not so! 
Unfurl the Stars and Stripes! Right onward go 
And rid these suffering people of their Foe. 



muBB »m^ 0f IB17—3. % ». 

(Tune of "We'll Honor Thee, Cornell") 

We sing our praises to thy name 

And wide thy colors fly. 

The Red and Yellow that bespeak 

Our noble Ithaca High. 

'Twas there we spent four happy years 

Each year with joy was fraught 

'Twas there we learned from noble minds 

The lessons living taught. 



Chorus: We'll honor thee, old High 
For thee we'll do or die, 
Through all our days 
We'll fondly praise 
Our dear old Ithaca High. 

And now from out thy sheltering arms 

Another class departs 

To win for thee new fame and praise 

The honor of all hearts. 

Our Alma Mater shall remain 

To us a sacred spot, 

No matter how or where we roam 

We can forget it not. 



Birtmi Salutamua 

Dear school-day comrades, we are met to-day 

To wish each other "God speed" on the way 

Out into the wide future's unknown span 

Of life, which waits for every maid and man. 

The past, so full of busy happy hours, 

Lies just behind us, and like spring-time flowers, 

Will live in fragrant memories that shall last, 

Till all the future blends into the past. 

As hand clasps hand to-day in fond farewell. 

How little of that future can we tell — 

Whether, years hence, in happy glad surprise, 

We look again into each other's eyes — 

Or whether, asking tidings of a friend. 

We learn that he has reached his journey's end — 

Or mayhap we ourselves, unknowing now. 

May first before Death's august presence bow. 

Amidst the gladness of this happy day. 

Some mournful notes upon our heart-strings play. 

As sweetest music holds a minor strain. 

So all our joy is not unmixed with pain. 

The memory of the four years past is ours, 

Some diligent, some sweetly vagrant hours, 

A happy record of our time well spent. 

Of joy and sorrow, struggle and content. 

Of friendships made, which firm will stand for aye, 

And only strengthen as the years go by; 



Of lessons learned, not wholly out of books, 

By Nature taught, in many shady nooks. 

Where murmuring streams are rippled by the breeze 

Which wafts sweet fragrance from the old pine trees — 

Where, under the blue arching summer skies, 

Our native land, in throes of war now lies. 

Our well-loved country, counting all the cost, 

Knowing when Honor's lost, then all is lost. 

We stand upon the threshold of the dawn 
Of a new day, with Youth to urge us on, 
Through struggle and endeavor, till we feel 
The realization of each fair ideal. 
The dawn of a to-morrow bom anew. 
In which to make our cherished dreams come true. 
Let us aim high, our aspirations keen. 
For what is best in life and what has been. 
So, now, dear friends, clasp hands with me to-day. 
While we, about to live, seek out the way. 
May Joy and Peace and Health your steps attend — 
Success crown each endeavor to the end. 
VALE! 



(Bi^nt l^exvi-'^tittB 



\ 



(Sl^m I|?ro-P0?t5 



'^'D^ILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS, our honored Dean 
*^^ of American literature, has said that "war stopped 
literature, that war did not produce great poetry," but 
on the other hand, our Dean of American Poetesses, Edna 
D. Proctor, calls to mind the fact that, "war was the 
themt of the Iliad and war was the theme of the Odyssey" 
— two of the greatest Epics ever written. From the time 
of the Ancients to the present, war has so greatly stirred 
the hearts of men, that it must inevitably produce liter- 
ature. 

If this needed further or more abundant proof, we 
have evidence of it, in the fact that amidst the bloodiest 
and most terrible of all wars, known in the so-called age 
of civilization, three poets have arisen, simultaneously, 
as it were, from three different quarters of the globe, 
each of whom has had an opportunity to prove himself 
a great poet, or with the potentialities of greatness; which 
in the case of two, can never reach full fruition, on ac- 
count of their heroic deaths: Rupert Brooke, the young 
Englishman, who sailed with the British Mediterranean 
Expeditionary Force, February 28, 1915, in defense of 
his country, and died in the Aegean, April 23, 1915, at 
the age of twenty-eight; Alan Seeger, a young American, 
bom in New York City, who, when the war was not yet 
three weeks old, enlisted in the Foreign Legion of France — 

"Not unmindful of the antique debt 
Came back the generous path of Lafayette," 



and set an example of brave self-sacrifice to the young 
men of America, which culminated in his heroic death 
in action, on July 4, 1916, at the age of twenty-eight, at 
Belloy-en- Santerre. 

The last of the three, Robert W. Service, a man of 
forty-one, an Englishman by birth, a Canadian by adop- 
tion, is still living, and is driving a Red Cross ambulance 
"somewhere in France," having enlisted with the Medical 
Division of the French Army, almost at once, after the 
"world-war" began. 



YD UPERT BROOKE, it is said, was one of the hand- 
«*~\. somest Englishmen of his time. As his friends lov- 
ingly described him, he was a "golden young Apollo," 
the embodied spirit of youth and joy. "Hair of deep 
browny gold, smooth ruddy face, and eyes of living blue, 
he typified the 'Youth of the World,' and his moods 
were the radiance of an early summer's day. With him 
came a happy shining impression that he might have just 
come — that very moment — from another planet, one well 
^Wthin the solar system, but a little more like Utopia 
than ours." 

I have said so much at length of him, because, it 
seems to me, that all these qualities of his personality 
are reflected in the poems he has left, especially in his 
earlier ones. Perhaps none better illustrates this than 
the one he has named "The Hill," breathing, as it does, 
the ecstasy of fife and youth: 



"Breathless, we flung us on the windy hill, 
Laughed in the sun, and kissed the lovely grass. 
You said, "Through glory and ecstasy we pass; 
■Wind, sun, and earth remain, the birds sing still. 
When we are old, are old" — "And when we die 
All's over that is ours: and life burns on 
Through other lovers, other lips," said I, 
— "Heart of my heart, our heaven is now, is won!" 
"We are Earth's best, that learnt her lesson here, 
Life is our cry. 'We have kept the faith!" we said; 
We shall go down with unreluctant tread 
Rose-crowned into the darkness! .... 

When the war began, in his usual characteristic way, 
he exclaimed: "Well, if Armageddon's on, I suppose one 
should be there," — a calm acceptance of the inevitable, 
so far as the war was concerned, an unquestioning sur- 
render of himself to the cause of his Country. 

His love of life resolved itself into his love of England, 
which found its voice in his Sonnets of 1914, each in 
itself a pearl of price, a gem in the golden crown of his 
fame. These five sonnets are the splendid fulfilment of 
the promise of Rupert Brooke's earlier poetry. In them 
he has reaped the first mature fruits of his genius and, 
in doing so, has written his own perfect epitaph. 

His was a sincere and valiant spirit. His kindness 
of heart, his tolerance of all men were notable, the latter 
especially, when his youth is considered. i 

Joyous, fearless, ruled by high purpose, he serenely 
sacrificed himself for what he knew to benight and just, 
in the "hardest, cruellest and least rewarded of all the 
wars that men have fought." 

We feel that we shall never truly know how great 
the loss has been to his country and to its literature, by 



the death of Rupert Brooke. "Only the echoes sind the 
memory remain; but they will linger." ♦ 

He died in April of 1915, and is buried at Scyros, 
"amid the white and pinkish marble of the isle, the wild 
thyme and the poppies, near the green and blue waters," 
and though his resting place is known only by a little 
wooden cross, with his name, and the date of his birth 
and death, marked on it in black, he has left sure and 
unquestioned evidences of great genius, to live after him. 

Strong, courageous, beautiful, vital, in love with life, 
but brave and ready to face death in the beloved cause, 
we find every characteristic of spirit and soul brought 
within the scope of our imderstanding and appreciation 
in these beautiful last words of his: 

"if I should die, think only this of me: 
That there's some corner of a foreign field 
That is forever England. There shall be 
In that rich earth a richer dust concealed; 
A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware, 
Gave, once her flowers to love, her ways to roam, 
A body of England's, breathing English air, 
■Washed by the rivers, blest by suns at home." 

We love to think that immortality will bring him all 
he craved and all he lost when he went so bravely out 
of life, in the very fulness of living. 

Still may Time hold some golden space 

■Where I'll unpack that scented store 
Of song and flower and sky and face. 

And count, and touch, and turn them o'er. 
Musing upon them; as a mother, who 
Has watched her children all the rich day through 
Sits, quiet-handed, in the fading light, 
■When children sleep, ere night." 



Y^OBERT W. SERVICE, the only one among our 
#^\ three hero-poets who has not yet been called upon 
to give his life for his country, was bom in England, in 
1876. He was educated in Glasgow, but came to Canada 
in 1905 and held a position in the Canadian Bank of Com- 
merce. He was, at one time, stationed in the Yukon 
Territory. 

His first collection of verse, called the "Songs of a 
Sour-dough," depicting the life of the miners, and the 
hardened veterans of the North, in its wild freedom from 
all conventions, and the wonderful spell of that Northern 
covmtry, was rejected by every publisher in the United 
States and Canada, until it came into the hands of the 
Briggs Publishing Company of Toronto, but has since 
made a fortune for its Author. It is now known under 
the more prepossessing title of "The Spell of the Yukon," 
and was followed, two years later, by the "Ballads of a 
Cheechako." His next book of poems was entitled 
"Rhymes of a Rolling Stone." He is the author of two 
novels also, the last, called "The Pretender" being largely 
autobiographical. 

He has been called the "Canadian Kipling" and the 
"Kipling of the Arctic World," and, the likeness is most 
appropriate. Especially is it apparent in his two earliest 
volumes of verse. His virility, forcefulness and originality, 
his elemental intensity of feeling, his lack of hesitation 
at using the right word in the right place, no matter how 
rough or raw it may be, are the especial characterictics 
he has in common with Kipling. 

In his "Rhymes of a Rolling Stone," this style is some- 
what softened, and is then strongly reminiscent of our 



Bret Harte, the beloved of Americans, East and West. 
The feeling is the same, but the verse itself is more deli- 
cate in thought and expression. 

But it is vmder the tragic inspiration of war, met 
face to face, day after day, in all its horrors and intensity 
of suffering, that his verse takes on the old ruggedness 
of his earlier volumes but with an added strength and 
maturity, an intensity of feeling and expression that 
only such scenes of horror, and the experiences of his 
daily life, under the Red Cross, can inspire. 

Never did the full realization of the awfulness of the 
present world conflict come to me, until, in the "Rhymes 
of a Red Cross Man," I saw it, stripped of all sentiment 
and romance, the true Demon that it is. 

Never in any work of any author, with which I am 
familiar, have humour and pathos been so closely or dar- 
ingly intermingled, making his work human and real 
beyond all art. We forget his poetry in the wonder of his 
vivid reality. 

The "Foreword" of this volume, dedicated to the 
memory of his brother, Lieut. Albert Service, of the 
Canadian Infantry, who was killed in action in France, 
in August, 1916, is a tragic preface to a still more tragic 
collection of verse. There is no imaginative fancy, but 
grim and horrible fact, set down in rugged, imcompromis- 
ing words, which make us shudder and grow pale. 

"For through it all like horror runs 
The red resentment of the guns. 
And you yourself would mutter when 
You took the things that once were men, 
And sped them through the Zone of Hate 
To where the dripping surgeons wait." 



And with him we 

"Wonder too if in God's siglit 

War ever, ever can be right." 

"The Haggis of Private McPhee," with its vein of 
comedy so closely mingled with tragedy, is never to be 
forgotten, once read. The two comrades who, both 
wounded, one blind, the other with both legs shot away, 
combining the resources that are left them, and thus 
making their way painfully back to camp, in order to 
taste the juicy plum pudding, which a sorrowing and 
thoughtful mother had sent, only to find their companion, 
whom they had left to guard the feast, in tears, and to 
hear the tragic story he has to tell, is a wonderful bit of 
realism; for in his blubbering Scotch, Wullie McNair 
breaks the news to them: 

"I'd just liftit it oot o' the pot, 
And there it lay steaming and savory hot. 
When sudden I dooked at the fleech of a shell, 
And it — drapped on the haggis and dinged it tae hell.' 

The sequel, so out of proportion to all the great issues of 
the war, yet served its good turn against the enemy, for: 

"■When sudden the order wis passed tae attack. 
And up from the trenches like lions they leapt. 
And on through the nicht like a torrent they swept. 
On. on wi' their bayonets thirstin' before! 
On, on tae the foe wi' a rush and a roar! 
And wild to the welkin their battle-cry rang. 
And doon an the Boches like tigers they sprang; 
And there wisna a man but had death in his ee. 
For the thoot o' the haggis o' Private McPhee." 

In "A Song of Winter Weather," the great physical 
misery endured in the war, aside from all its horror and 



the suffering of the wounded, is brought home to us in 
vivid verse. We see the soldiers, marching kneedeep in 
"the mud, the rain and the cold", with no hope of cheer- 
ful campfire awaiting them at the end of the day. 

"Sure the worst of our foes 
Are the pains and the woes 
Of the rain the cold and the mud." 

The gruesome horror of the word-picture "On the 
Wire" haunts us; the picture of a wounded soldier, en- 
tangled in the barbed wire in "No Man's Land," between 
the trenches, where it is impossible to reach the wounded. 
There he suffers and thirsts under the burning sun, and 
the drenching dews, until he finds welcome release in 
death. 

In contrast to the two last mentioned poems, what 
could be more tender, more sweet, more pathetic, than 
his picture of "Fleurette," who did not hesitate to be- 
stow the comfort of her kiss upon the soldier, shattered 
by a bomb he had smothered in the trenches, to save 
his men. 

Ranking with this, in the same quality of pathos, 
is that wonderful picture of his, which he has called 
"Grand Pere," the name given to their beloved General 
Joffre, by his soldiers. This must, like all, in fact, be 
read to be appreciated, for the greatest prose ever written 
would seem feeble and ineffectual beside his strong and 
pregnant verse. 

In the last poem to which I wish to call especial at, 
tention, his appeal to our faith, even in the midst of all 
this horror of bloodshed, is sweet and simple as a child's- 
and hope is bom to us in the reading of the lines: 



"Then let's have faith; good cometh out of ill; 
The power that shaped the strife shall end the strife; 
Then let's bow down before the Unknown 'Will; 
Fight on, believing all is well with life; 
Seeing within the worst of 'War's red rage 
The gleam, the glory of the Golden Age." 



'J f'T.AN SEEGER was the embodiment of all that is 
^"^ best in life; a man of high vitality and an over- 
flowing joy in existence; a man keen for great experiences 
and high and noble adventure, which discovers itself 
again and again in all he has written. In a sonnet, written 
two months before his death, he has given us a personal 
picture, which greatly endears him to us: 

"Down the free roads of human happiness 
I frolicked, poor of purse, but light of heart. 
And lived in strict devotion all along 
To my three idols--Love and Arms and Song." 

He was a vivid and virile soul, alive to the beauty 
and wonder of the universe, who accepted life as a glorious 
gift and with joy lived it out to the fullest. 

It has been said of him, that, "of all the poets who 
have died young, none has died so happily;" and when 
we remember the sad and disappointing lives of Keats, 
and Shelley, and of Byron, we cannot but feel that this 
is true; for he died, as he would have wished to die, for 
the country whose cause he had espoused, in the heat 
of conflict and in the moment of victory. 

His "Ode in Memory of the American Volunteers 
Fallen for France," which he was to have read before 
the statutes of Lafayette and of Washington in Paris, 



on Decoration Day, May 30, 1916, had his leave of ab- 
sence come in time, is prophetic of his own death, when 
he expresses the hope that, "accents of ours were in the 
fierce melee," and says: 

"Now heaven be thanked, we gave a few brave drops; 
Now heaven be thanked, a few brave drops were ours." 

It was his, as he wished it — "the rare privilege of dying 
well," for it is known that, as he lay mortally wounded, 
after the first onslaught, under the fire of six German 
machine men, he cheered the next advancing line of his 
companions and urged them on to victory with an English 
marching song, and his last failing breath. 

The "Ode" before referred to, is one of the finest 
productions of his pen and brain — his whole soul and 
heart were in it — and it is the more remarkable in that 
it was completed in two days while he was engaged in 
the hardest physical labor in the trenches. In it he wrote 
his own best epitaph. 

The value of his work can never be fully or rightly 
estimated. Of the three contemporaries, herein considered, 
he seems to me to rank highest in true and delicate poetic 
feeling. His passion for beauty revealed itself every- 
where, through his great gift of song. The spirit of 
Romance was strong in its appeal for him; he dreamed 
it, he foimd beautiful expression for it, he lived it, from 
glad choice, even to the "great adventure" which Death 
invited him to share. 

Perhaps it was because, throughout his life, he was 
surrounded by beauty; first, in his life on Staten Island, 
later in his sojourn amidst the sunlight and splendor and 
romantic environments of Mexico, and still later in his 



school days in Tarrytown, surrounded by the rugged 
beauties of the Hudson. A short period he spent in the 
New Hampshire hills, again in Southern California, and 
all these beautiful regions find a place in his poems, at 
least the influence of their beauty, to which he was so 
keenly susceptible. 

His earlier work, under these influences, is more 
imaginative, more contemplative, more serene. Under 
the influence of the last vivid experiences of his life, it 
grows in strength and in concentration, and loses the 
imaginative in the real, the abstract in the concrete of 
every day life, of hardship and suffering, but it is glorified 
by his pen and by his heroic devotion, till we lose sight 
of sense in soul, and that the soul of a poet and hero. 

He is everywhere sincere, and everywhere true to 
the best and highest standards of literature and above 
all scorns the pose of "vers libre," the "art nouveau" of 
poesy, as he does everything that does not meet the high 
ideals of the true poet. He writes from the imagination 
of an idealist and from his own vivid experiences. His 
love of life was so intense and so real that we are un- 
consciously inspired and uplifted by it, to a keener feel- 
ing than we have known before. He himself says: 

"... . From a boy 

I gloated on existence, Earth to me 
Seemed all sufficient, and my sojourn there 
One trembling opportunity for joy." 

We are glad to know that New York City, which must 
constantly meet the arraignment of lack of heart, and lack 
of sentiment, has produced so true a genius. 

His long residence in Paris, the city of his heart, made 
fealty to France an impelling desire when the need came. 



"We saw not clearly nor understood, 
But yielding ourselves to the Master hand, 
Each in his part, as best he could, 
"We played it through as the Author planned." 

In his own words, written to his mother, amidst the 
roar of cannon, he says: "In this universe, strife and 
sternness play as big a part, as love and tenderness, and 
cannot be shirked by one whose will it is to rule his life 
in accordance with the cosmic forces he sees in play about 
him." It was his philosophy of life. 

Everywhere, in the hardest kind of work, and sur- 
rounded by the horror and suffering in the trenches, he 
yet notes the beauty of the autumn weather, the sunny 
days and the bright coloring of the foliage after the first 
frosty nights, the grandeur of the starlit sky when on 
picket duty and the lovely landscape spreading out be- 
fore him by day, even to the distant snow-capped moun- 
tains. This was his poetry of life. 

If I were to choose the one of his poems most char- 
acteristic of him, it would be that one which, with the 
"Ode," must live, it seems to me, as long as the memory 
of the present war, which will be for all time. It is his 
"I have a Rendezvous with Death," which is too ex- 
quisite, in its sad and tender and heroic beauty to be 
quoted except in its entirety: 

"I have a rendezvous with Death 
At some disputed barricade, 

■When Spring conies back with a rustling shade 
And apple-blossoms fill the air — 
I have a rendezvous with Death 
■When Spring brings back blue days and fair. 



It may be he shall take my hand 
And lead me into his dark land 
And close my eyes and quench my breath- 
It may be I shall pass him still. 
I have a rendezvous with Death 
On some scarred slope of battered hill. 
When Spring comes round again this year 
And the first meadow flowers appear. 

God knows 'twere better to be deep 
Pillov^red in silk and scented down 
Where love throbs out in blissful sleep; 
Pulse nigh to pulse, and breath to breath 
■Where hushed awakenings are dear — 
But I've a rendezvous with Death 
At midnight in some flaming town, 
■When Spring trips north again this year. 
And I to my pledged word am true — 
I shall not fail that rendezvous." 



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